


What nicer thing can you do for somebody but make them breakfast?

by middlemarch



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Breakfast, Conversations, Diners, Domestic, F/M, Gen, Jewish Character, Lorelai marries Max in Season 3, Male Friendship, Max is not a fan of Lorelai's parents, Reading, Ready set go!, Some Cursing, neither Max nor Luke are villains, written during the pandemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Luke had expected Max to tip slightly more than he should, because after all, he'd gotten the girl.
Relationships: Lorelai Gilmore/Christopher Hayden, Lorelai Gilmore/Max Medina, Luke Danes & Lorelai Gilmore, Luke Danes & Max Medina, Luke Danes & Rory Gilmore, Rory Gilmore & Max Medina
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	1. I.	Florentine omelet

“It’s green,” Luke announced, setting the plate down in front of Max. There was an entire _New York Times_ Sunday newspaper sitting in the spot that Luke would have expected Lorelai to occupy, but then, it was also 7 am on a Sunday and Lorelai wouldn’t be up for another three hours. Four, if you counted the one where she walked around, moaning like a zombie for coffee. A curly haired zombie in lounge pants, but a brain-sucking monster nonetheless. 

“I know. Spinach,” Max said, shaking a little pepper over the food. Not enough to be an insult and not hot sauce, which would have being like giving the finger. A flagrant _fuck you_ to the eggs and to Luke. Max evidently either had good taste or good manners.

“And arugula, heirloom tomatoes, locally sourced feta,” Luke said. 

“This isn’t diner food,” Max said, his gaze steady. Luke could see the appeal of those dark eyes, the curve of his mouth.

“It is at my diner. My food, my diner. Simple,” Luke said, realizing he sounded hostile. 

“She’s never even tried it, has she?” Max asked. They both knew he didn’t mean Rory.

“And eat something that might be good for her? She’s 90% caffeine anyway,” Luke said.

“Except for Sunday mornings,” Max smiled. 

“Four across is ‘semaphore,’” Luke offered.

“Thanks,” Max said, the tone nonspecific. Luke was glad Jess wasn’t around to notice and then carefully not say anything.


	2. II.	Sweet potato waffles

“I don’t need syrup,” Max said, as Luke set the plate down. The waffles were a rich gold, topped with a ruddy fruit compote, fragrant with nutmeg and orange rind. Lorelai wouldn’t have touched them with a ten-foot pole.

“You don’t,” Luke said flatly. He agreed but he didn’t necessarily like it. Maybe if Max had brought Rory along, so she’d get a real dose of Vitamin A for once. She relied far too much on breakfast cereal fortification. 

“I tried to hide kale in a smoothie,” Max said. Confided. “She spat it out.”

“Rookie mistake,” Luke shrugged. His hands were empty after delivering the meal and they felt suddenly much larger, like they’d been inflated or replaced by Inspector Gadget claw-hands, Borg monstrosities. He did occasionally watch something besides whatever ball game was on.

“Can’t use that excuse that much longer,” Max said. The light managed to catch his wedding ring at exactly that moment; Luke couldn’t blame him, per se, as the ring was plain gold, narrow, basic. An uncomplicated commitment to love Lorelai, care for Lorelai. Fuck Lorelai, who was evidently so exhausted afterwards brunch had become an artifact of a different era, like her 90s plaid shirt collection.

“Nah. I think kale’s a lost cause with her. Berries might work. Rory eats those anyway,” Luke said. Max had an issue of the _New Yorker_ next to his coffee cup today and he wore a ratty sweatshirt Luke wouldn’t have been seen dead in. This was what marriage to Lorelai Gilmore would have looked like. Sort of.

“How much canned whipped cream would I need to buy to get her to choke them down?” Max said. Luke could have gotten very bitter, very fast, at the image Max conjured; Lorelai in an oversized tee-shirt and no panties parting her lips for a strawberry, for the froth of aerosolized cream, but Max was sitting in his diner in a grey sweatshirt and old jeans, not walking into his bedroom with a laden tray and a virtual cauldron of coffee. 

“She finally figured out Rory’s going to live on campus,” Luke said. “Harvard, or wherever she goes.”

“Yes. Her dick of a father isn’t paying a penny,” Max said. 

“Why would he start now? He’s a fucking waste of space,” Luke said. Max nodded, his jaw tight. Luke was fairly certain a decent portion of Max’s private school salary was going to be heading towards whatever Ivy League school Rory had chosen. 

“It’s nice to be able to say it out loud. I get it, for Rory, he’s her dad, but Lorelai—she’s made so many excuses for Christopher. _Christopher_. Her parents still talk about him like the one who got away and here’s Max, the fucking Jew—”

“At least you graduated college. And grad school. I’m the Neanderthal loser who runs a diner. I never even went to the Castle Gilmore,” Luke said. “Never invited, not even in a dinner-for-schmucks scenario.”

“Have you ever seen chintz?” Max said, forking in a mouthful of the waffles, chewing and then smiling beatifically.

“Yeah? Illustrated teapots and flowers and robins and crap? With ruffles?”

“Congratulations. You’ve been to the Gilmores, mercifully minus Emily haranguing her latest maid, misquoting Donne, and Lorelai regressing to a 14 year old,” Max said. “Her dinosaur father just drinks and watches Rory, like we all don’t know he thinks she’s a second chance.”

“Why do you go?”

“I married her. And I’m Rory’s stepfather,” Max said, simple as pie. As simple as how Lorelai thought it was to make a lemon chiffon pie, discounting the cold butter cut into the crust and the homemade curd, the whipping a real meringue required. The gentleness you needed to burn sugar.

“You sure are,” Luke said.


	3. III.	Quinoa Breakfast Bowl, extra avocado

“I didn’t ask for extra avocado,” Max said.

“But you want it,” Luke replied. It was the truth. Max would also drink a matcha green tea latte and was the only person who’d complimented the overnight oats. Well, Miss Patty had, but she just wanted to get in Luke’s pants and he wasn’t easy. 

“Yeah, I do,” Max said.

“Chilton not the same without Rory?” Luke asked. She’d left for Yale in August, shocking only Lorelai, who thought Rory’s dream of Harvard that had begun at age 6 meant a 17 year old would still want to go there. There had been tears, Luke could tell, because Lorelai’s eyes had been red-rimmed and she’d worn a lot of mascara and Max had gotten bacon cheeseburgers to go a few times a month. He’d given Max a turkey burger the last time and swapped in sweet potato fries tossed in parmesan and miso.

“Actually, it is. She was the difference. There’s only one like her every dozen years,” Max said. “Not a lot of genuine interest in Kerouac and HD and Chaucer.”

“She’s one of a kind,” Luke agreed.

“Maybe,” Max said, poking at the toasted pepitas. Luke had his regrets and Max had his. It was a sort of companionship.

“Relax. I heard Lorelai puking in the Ladies and she hasn’t had a cup of coffee here in a week,” Luke said, rolling his eyes. “I figured it out.”

“The timing’s not great,” Max remarked. Luke hoped he’d gotten to be excited for like 10 minutes; Lorelai didn’t generally leave a lot of room for other people to get excited about something that she thought was hers first.

“It never is,” Luke said. “It wasn’t before and that was Rory, so track record’s in your favor.”

“Once she decides to tell you, you can say that to her. She’ll like it, coming from you,” Max said.

“Coming from me?”

“She trusts you,” Max said and Luke heard what he didn’t say _More than anyone_. _More than me_. 

“Well, we go way back. I fed Rory the first actual fruit she ever ate, mashed banana. Lorelai would have given her mashed Cheetos,” Luke said. He didn’t say _She married you_. _She loves you_.

“How’d you manage that?” Max asked.

“Rory was easy, opened her mouth like a baby bird. I waited until Lorelai fell asleep,” Luke said. “I gave her decaf, she was running on fumes and didn’t notice.”

“Smart.”

“I have my moments,” Luke said. “Occasionally.”

“She underestimated you,” Max said. Luke knew he didn’t just mean the decaf legerdemain and shrugged. 

“Nah. When it comes down to it, Lorelai makes the right call.”


	4. IV. Buckwheat Porridge Overnight Breakfast Parfait with Yogurt and Plum Puree

“Try this,” Luke said unceremoniously. Did there need to be a ceremony with Max? For all that he and Lorelai seemed to enjoy a fast-paced patter full of zingers and retorts like a 1930s screwball comedy on meth, Luke found Max pretty relaxed when he showed up solo in the diner, which was mostly Sunday mornings before 10. Lorelai, over six months pregnant and not a teenager this time, had a particularly sloth-like quality on weekends and the absolute cessation of caffeine had… not been pretty and had shown just how much she relied on the chemical for her typical vim. On Sunday mornings, it was always going to be Max alone or, very rarely, Max and Rory on break, engaged in an endless debate about which was the best Dickens novel, as if anything rivaled _Bleak House_.

“Can I have a coffee with it?” Max asked. He didn’t say _I didn’t order this_ or _What the hell is it?_ He’d picked up the sundae spoon Luke had set down and was already excavating a perfect mouthful, balancing the buckwheat, yogurt and plums like he was an Olympic Gold medalist and this was his sport.

“If you’re okay with Ethiopian,” Luke said. Lorelai had never had the least interest in what went into the coffee as long as it was hot, strong and unadulterated. Max had a more discerning palate.

“Sure. I’m still going to get you those Blue Mountain beans when they’re in stock,” Max said.

“If you insist,” Luke said. He wasn’t going to fall all over himself about it. 

“Shit. This is good. The buckwheat is brilliant,” Max said, giving Luke a halfway blissed-out smile he shouldn’t care about. “Needs a snappy name, you’ll sell out. Sookie will _not_ be happy. But in a good way.”

“Mid-terms?” Luke said, gesturing at the stack of type-written pages Max had dangerously close to the parfait. They were already amply marked up with red pen. Luke liked the idea of those snotty Chilton kids getting what for. Not Rory, her papers were probably perfect, but that was because she’d never coasted on her smarts, always worked as hard as she could. 

“No. This is—well, it’s a little embarrassing,” Max said.

“Yesterday Kirk passed out when I accidentally startled him, fell out of his chair, and Babette tripped over him. Then Miss Patty wolf-whistled so loud all the dogs in town howled. You’re good,” Luke said. The town was fucking weird but it was his.

“I’m writing a novel. I’ve been writing it for about five years, started before I ever met Lorelai,” Max said. “I know, it’s a joke, the worst kind—who _isn’t_ writing a novel?”

“I’m not,” Luke shrugged. Jess had been, Luke knew that even though he wasn’t supposed to, Jess’s first novel, far too influenced by Kerouac and Rory Gilmore and bizarrely, Graham Greene. The Graham Greene part was the strongest but Luke knew better than to say anything. Or mention that Rory’s eyes were blue like a kettle pond, not the ocean. Jess would learn. 

“It’s a terrible time to write—Lorelai isn’t having some serene second trimester, she’s a dervish and Emily won’t stop telling her she’s ‘advanced maternal age’ this time and she’s terrified it’ll be a girl, because who can compare to Rory, and she’s terrified it’ll be a boy, because she’s never had a boy and we’ll have to decide on whether to invite her parents to the bris, and fucking Christopher only has girls. So it seemed like the ideal time to try to finish this,” Max said. It would have been a rant from Lorelai but Max was different. His eyes were so dark and his voice was low, a little rough. Luke had an odd feeling, his hands wanting to do something, cuff Max on the shoulder or grab the hand that was reaching to take another bite of the parfait and hold it. 

“You close?” he heard himself saying. Thank God, thank fucking God, Miss Patty was nowhere near and Mrs. Kim wasn’t either, to hear him cursing God and somehow meaning Lorelai and Max.

“This is the third draft. I need someone to read it, but Lorelai’s hopeless. She has the attention-span of a gnat right now and anyway, she wouldn’t get it,” Max said.

“Why?”

“It’s about the Gashouse Gang, ’34, Pepper Martin. Lorelai isn’t a baseball fan. I don’t think she knows anything more than the chorus of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game.” There’s no one at Chilton I trust and—maybe if I’d gone to Stanford when I had the chance… It is what it is, right?” Max shrugged this time.

“I’ll read it. If you want,” Luke offered.

“What?”

“If you can’t find anyone. At least I know the game, I can tell if you screwed that part up,” Luke said.

“You’d do that? Read it?” Max asked.

“Yeah. That’s what I just said,” Luke answered. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“No. I do. I—it’s a lot to ask,” Max said.

“Why? Can’t you write for shit?” Luke said. Max laughed, his eyes warm and his grin unselfconscious. He hadn’t shaved, which, who cared, but it wasn’t the Chilton look, not the going-to-the-Gilmores look. It was a good look.

“Yeah, I can write for shit. Though my students would basically spontaneously combust if they heard me say it,” Max said.

“Leave it when you go. You need it back by a deadline?” Luke asked.

“No. Whenever you get to it,” Max said, holding his gaze. Lorelai hadn’t made a mistake marrying him, that was for sure. “Though, preferably before the baby comes.”

“Okay,” Luke said. “Coffee’ll be up in five.”

“Take your time. I have to make sure I don’t embarrass myself with this monster,” Max said, turning back to the manuscript with a pen. Luke wanted to see him eat another bite of the parfait but it was okay. He knew Max was enjoying it.

“Maybe now I’ll have time to convince Lora we’re not calling the baby Beatrix after her sociopath grandmother,” Max said. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Well, it could be a boy,” Max said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnny Leonard Roosevelt "Pepper" Martin (February 29, 1904 – March 5, 1965) was an American professional baseball player and minor league manager. He was known as the Wild Horse of the Osage because of his daring, aggressive baserunning abilities. Martin played in Major League Baseball as a third baseman and an outfielder for the St. Louis Cardinals during the 1930s and early 1940s. He was best known for his heroics during the 1931 World Series, in which he was the catalyst in a Cardinals' upset victory over the Philadelphia Athletics.
> 
> Martin was an integral member of the Cardinals' teams of the 1930s that became known as the Gashouse Gang for their roguish behavior and practical jokes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Anthony Bourdain.
> 
> I thought I'd pursue what the show could have looked like if Lorelai and Max had gotten married after all...


End file.
